Chapter 9 - Ninety Seconds on Shore Road
The heavy iron gates of the Moretti estate stood wide open to the cold coastal wind.
Parked across the asphalt of Shore Road were four dark SUVs, their engines idling loudly, exhaust fumes pluming white into the afternoon air.
Leaning against the hood of the lead vehicle was Matteo Rossi. He was a sleek, dark-haired man in a white trench coat, flanked by four heavy-set enforcers with their hands tucked inside their jackets.
Behind the Moretti iron gates stood eight armed security guards led by Daniel Bishop, their hands resting on hidden weapons.
A moment later, a heavy black Cadillac sedan rolled slowly down the gravel driveway, stopping five feet inside the open iron gate.
The rear door opened.
Raphael Moretti stepped out onto the gravel.
He wore a dark wool overcoat that fell past his knees, tailored dark trousers, and polished black leather riding boots. In his right hand, he held a heavy, silver-topped mahogany walking stick.
His right leg was fitted inside his old prosthetic boot, tightly bound and stabilized by Sloan's medical wrap beneath his trousers.
He couldn't feel his right foot—it wasn't there—and every nerve ending in his stump was burning with intense pressure against the hard socket, but he didn't flinch.
He stood tall, six-foot-two, his posture rigid, his shoulders back, his single eye fixed on Matteo Rossi with cold, absolute contempt.
He took three steps forward.
Each step was slow, heavy, and deliberate, the silver tip of his walking stick crunching into the white gravel with a sound like crushing bone.
Step. Click. Step. Click.
He stopped two feet from the iron gate, leaning lightly on the mahogany stick, staring straight into Rossi's eyes.
"You're blocking my driveway, Matteo," Rafe said, his voice carrying cleanly over the sound of idling engines, smooth, dark, and utterly devoid of weakness.
Matteo Rossi froze.
His eyes darted from Rafe's face down to his polished leather boots, looking for any sign of a tremor, any sign of hesitation, any proof of the rumors that had been circulating through the city for seven months.
He saw none.
Standing behind him, Rafe appeared as massive, dangerous, and unyielding as he had been before the crane accident at the docks.
"Raphael," Rossi said, swallowing hard, his sleek confidence visibly evaporating into the cold air. "I... I came to pay my respects. We heard... rumors in the city that your health was compromised."
Rafe took one more step forward—putting full, agonizing weight onto his left leg while letting his right prosthetic boot rest firmly on the asphalt.
He leaned across the gate, his face six inches from Rossi's.
"The next man who spreads a rumor about my health," Rafe whispered, his tone so dark it made Rossi's four enforcers take an involuntary half-step back, "will have his tongue removed and mailed to his wife."
Rossi's face went pale gray.
"Understood, Raphael," Rossi stammered, pulling his white coat around his chest. "We... we'll be going now."
"Clear my road," Rafe commanded flatly.
Rossi scrambled back into his SUV. Within thirty seconds, all four vehicles turned their tires, slammed their doors, and sped away down Shore Road, their red taillights disappearing into the pine trees.
Rafe stood at the gate until the sound of their engines died away completely.
Then, slowly, his shoulders sagged.
"Daniel," Rafe gasped quietly.
Daniel and two security guards rushed forward, catching Rafe under his arms just as his strength gave out. They lifted him gently into the rear seat of the Cadillac, slamming the heavy door shut.
Sitting in the front passenger seat was Sloan Merrick, holding a pair of medical shears and a bottle of antiseptic spray.
As the car accelerated back up the driveway, Sloan turned around, reached down, and immediately unbuckled the leather straps of the prosthetic boot, freeing his stump from the hard socket.
Rafe lay back against the leather seat, panting heavily, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes closed in raw exhaustion.
"How long was I standing?" he whispered.
Sloan checked her watch. "Ninety-four seconds."
Rafe let out a raspy, exhausted laugh, looking at her through his open eye.
"You lied to me, Merrick," he muttered. "You said ninety seconds."
"Four seconds for dramatic effect," Sloan replied smoothly, spraying cool antiseptic over his red, irritated skin. "You ran him off your property, Mr. Moretti."
May you like
Rafe looked at her hands—steady, professional, and entirely free of fear—as she tended to his leg.
"Stay," he whispered.
